


Wonderkids

by caravanslost



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Pacific Rim AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Borussia Dortmund Pacific Rim AU. Mario decides that he's had enough of being a pilot. Auba decides that it's time to come back. Marco is caught somewhere in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Terracotta Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :D A few things: 
> 
> 1\. This is going to be fairly long. I’ve planned the entire story and written almost all of it. I’ll be posting each chapter as I finish editing it.
> 
> 2\. This fic is set several years before the movie. The movie is set in 2025 in the Hong Kong Shatterdome, at the ass-end of the Jaeger programme. This fic is set in 2020 in the Sydney Shatterdome (which exists, canonically), at the height of the Jaeger programme. I’ve also tried to stay as faithful as possible to the canonical timeline of the Pacific Rim universe. 
> 
> 3\. Several warnings: there will eventually be mentions of death, there will be major character injuries (but NOT major character deaths), there will be characters working through/discussing grief, as well as all the difficult stuff inherent in fighting a war for the survival of humankind. 
> 
> 4\. Finally, if I include any further triggering content, I’ll do my best to flag it. Likewise, if I forget to flag content that you feel *should* be flagged, please let me know. I’ll update my warnings accordingly.
> 
> I hope you like it!

They called Marco Reus and Mario Götze the Wonderkids.

They called them the Wonderkids because despite their youth, they were carving out a legacy. When Nessus, the first Category III Kaiju, emerged off the coast of Sydney, they were there to meet it, and they killed it.  But only just. Mario spent two weeks in the medical wing afterwards, and Marco would wear a bifurcated scar down the length of his left arm for the rest of his life. Their Jaeger, Indigo Omega, took such a beating that it was half new by the time all its repairs were completed. But a victory was a victory, and the world cherished a hard-won battle more than a clean, easy one.

They called them the Wonderkids because they made survival a habit. The system had performed its trials and errors on their predecessors, on the Beckhams, the Lahms, and the Zidanes, and Marco and Mario were the benefactors of that terrible history. But now, the Pan Pacific Defence Corps was finally getting things right, and Marco and Mario were amongst the most lethal weapons in its arsenal

They called them the Wonderkids, and the biggest wonder of all was the unlikely pair of idols they made. They didn’t look like heroes, like the Rauls and Gutis, or the Podolskis and Schweinsteigers. Those guys were legends and they looked the part, but Marco and Mario – despite all that they had achieved – still looked like kids. Mario had the smile and soft features of a cherub, but in a Jaeger, he had all the mercy of a bird of prey. Next to him, Marco stood tall but reserved, his killing reflex as sharp as his smile was lopsided. They were in their early twenties but they looked like kids, and the world held onto them more dearly for it.

They called them the Wonderkids, but sometimes they wondered whether the glory was worth it. The two of them were soldiers in a war that they didn’t cause and didn’t understand, one which they didn’t know how to win, and which they had only just learned how to fight. They were fated to be remembered, either for triumph or for tragedy, and for now they enjoyed the former. But neither Marco nor Mario ever forgot that the latter was biding its time, waiting patiently for them on the other side of the simplest error of judgment.

They called them the Wonderkids, and although they never courted the praise or the adulation, the world laid it at their feet anyway. Marco and Mario kept to their Shatterdome, on the Watson’s Bay peninsula at the mouth of Sydney Harbour, and they tried to enjoy staying alive while they could. They passed each day by training, eating, and sleeping, enjoying the privilege of a mundane routine because it meant that they were alive to perform it. It wasn’t easy to exist in perpetual red alert, to eat and sleep while waiting for klaxons to summon them to their Jaeger, but each tried to take care of himself and the other in the meanwhile.

They called them the Wonderkids, but only ever on the outside of the Shatterdome. Inside it, they were just Marco and Mario, Double and Trouble. They were loud and inseparable, serious about their work but precious little else, because they were young and dancing with death on a more regular basis than anyone their age should have had to endure. Everyone humoured them because a Shatterdome, by the very nature of what it did, saw too much grief. A little more levity was always welcome.

They called them the Wonderkids, but they didn’t feel wondrous most of the time. Everyone needed them to be strong – and they were – but they didn’t have to be around each other. They were quiet nights and tired silences, and long, hushed conversations about fear. Marco could deal with his fears for the most part, but Mario was hostage to his own. At their weakest, they woke him up in cold sweats, but at their worst, they buried him silently within himself. He hid it well and he swore Marco to secrecy. Marco reluctantly agreed and talked about the future to distract him, because they both needed to believe that they would be around to see it.

They called them the Wonderkids, but the two of them didn’t know what to call themselves. They occupied a strange place, more than friends and different to family, but not quite lovers. The bond forged between two Rangers in the drift was peculiar and language hadn’t yet gotten around to naming it. Marco preferred it that way. It meant they didn’t have to talk about it, and they could just let it be as it was. It was something strange, letting someone else into your mind, accepting that nothing could be hidden from them, sharing that headspace and then dealing with the vacuum in your core when it was taken away. He had always felt that one word could never sufficiently encompass all of that.

They were in Sydney and it was the farthest Shatterdome from Germany, from home, so they learned to find home in each other. They were the Wonderkids for three years.

And then, one day, they weren’t.

* * *

It fell apart on a Tuesday night in June, a few hours after dinner.

Marco was back in his room, reading. Music streamed through the reinforced walls from the corridor outside, the melodies reduced to a series of low, irregular thuds. The sound was probably coming from Kevin’s room, and Marcel was probably blasting his own music back in response to drown him out. After a while, Marco slipped on his headphones to drown out the sound of both of them and returned to his book.

At some point later that night, Mario turned up and let himself in. Marco didn’t notice, his attention caught between his music and his book. He only jolted with surprise when Mario moved closer to the bed, slipping into his line of peripheral vision. He grinned when he noticed him.

“Hey. Shame you weren’t at dinner.” Marco said, slipping off his headphones. “It was edible, for once.”

“Hey.”

And something about the tone with which he said that word jumped out at Marco. There was a slight reluctance in his voice, like that simple greeting had been an effort to say. It made Marco sit up a little straighter.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“I need to tell you something.” Mario said, looking at Marco’s cheek, almost but not quite meeting his eye. He exhaled. “Put the book down for a second.”

Mario fiddled with the silver cross that he wore around his neck, winding and then unwinding the long, thin chain around his index finger. The two of them had been friends long enough for Marco to recognise Mario’s major and minor nervous tics when he saw them. Chain-pulling meant something was Wrong, with a capital W, written in red, twice underlined. He snapped the book shut and put it to one side on the mattress, along with his headphones.

“Are you okay?” He repeated, because he realized that he hadn’t received an answer the first time round.

And he didn’t receive an answer now. Instead, Mario pulled out the chair from Marco’s desk and put it in front of the bed. He sat down and took a deep breath. Abandoning his chain, he began kneading the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other. A frown worried his brows but his voice was surprisingly steely when he began to speak.

“Okay. Marco.” He began slowly. “This isn’t going to be easy for me to say.”

There was a plea between the lines. _Go easy on me_.

“Spare me the crap.” Marco said, nausea taking a hazy form in his chest. “Just say it.”

Mario exhaled again, and the long pause that followed gave Marco time to think. He scoured his memory for clues about what was going on but he drew blanks. Mario hadn’t said anything strange or acted peculiarly, and Marco hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the drift.

He was used to knowing where things were with Mario, or at least sensing that something was up before Mario told him that it was. But this – whatever it turned out to be – this had caught him unaware. Marco didn’t like it.

“Okay.” Mario finally said, gathering himself. “Okay. I’m telling you this now because I don’t want to keep it from you. I didn’t want you finding out another way, like when we drift. And I don’t want you hearing it from someone else.”

“Finding out?”

“I haven’t made a decision yet either.” Mario continued, ignoring the question. It then struck Marco that this meeting and this speech had been planned. It had been rehearsed. Mario was talking through it for his own sake. ”I’m just - telling you. Can you understand that?”

“What decision?” Marco replied, his heart plummeting a storey or two. “Mario. Look at me.”

Mario sat back, rubbed his hands over his face, and finally looked Marco in the eye. There was sadness in his expression, and in the slump of his shoulders.

“I’ve been offered a position.” He said, the waver back in his voice.

“By Klopp?”

Mario shook his head. “No. In the PPDC. At Command Base.”

The nausea in Marco’s chest took an altogether more solid form. It rose hot in his throat, and lumped at the base of it. His mind hurtled through a dozen thoughts before finally settling on one.

“Command Base is at Anchorage.”

“I know.”

“Anchorage is in _Alaska_.”

 _And Alaska is on the other side of the damn Pacific_ , he thought. Mario couldn’t get further away from Sydney if he tried.

“I know.” Mario repeated, running a nervous hand through his hair. “They’ve offered me a Lieutenant position in the Secretary-General’s office.”

“They?”

“Well. Him. Secretary-General Löw.”

“You applied?”

“No. No. Not at all.” He said, shaking his head, at pains to make it perfectly clear. “No. Löw called me out of the blue. The position became available.”

“So you were head-hunted.”

“I guess so.” Mario replied, and he said it like an apology.

Marco knew that the right thing to do was to offer congratulations, whether the words burned his tongue or not. He should have remarked on what an honour it was that Mario was being personally head-hunted by the Secretary-General of the PPDC. He should have told Mario that it was an amazing opportunity, because even in the midst of his shock, Marco knew that objectively, it was.

But he didn’t say any of those things, because if Mario was in Anchorage, then he wasn’t in Sydney.

Mario’s eyes searched Marco’s for a response. “Come on, Marco. Just - say something. Please?”

“When did you find out?”

“This afternoon. Löw called after lunch. I’ve been – I’ve been thinking. There’s a lot to think about.”

“Have you told Klopp?”

“Löw said that he spoke with Klopp a week ago. He told him that he was planning to make me the offer.”

“And Klopp didn’t stop him?”

“Klopp told him that it was my decision. He said that he wouldn’t be getting in the way, and that I had to decide for myself.”

Marco felt a sharp pain at his mouth, and tasted a ferric tang. He realized he was biting down on his lips with force, and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. As he did so, he tried to unpack the look that Mario was giving him now. The same sadness from before was still there, along with the weariness in the hollows above his cheeks. But Marco now could make out a speck of something else as well.

It looked like resolve, and it frightened him.

“And?” Marco asked, hardening his tone and his expectations. “Have you decided?”

A long pause followed. Mario looked away briefly, shifting his gaze to a spot on the wall next to Marco’s head before meeting his eyes again. His hand found its way back to his chain.

And just like that, Marco knew that he had his answer.

“Shit.” Marco said faintly, more to himself. “You have.”

“I’m … still thinking.”

The problem, Marco thought, was that Mario’s body language bore testament to the complete opposite. He sat there like he was bracing himself for a hurricane. There was a heaviness in his movements and a sunken pallor to his cheeks.

There was a heaviness in Marco’s heart too, and it was telling him that his instinct was right. He trusted that instinct because he was as fluent in Mario as he was in himself. Mario wouldn’t be staying. He felt the cold knowledge sink over him and settle in the marrow of his bones

“No. You’ve decided.” Marco said softly. "Haven't you."

He waited for a denial. He would have taken a sign of indecision, if Mario had been inclined to offer it. He just wanted to be told that there was room to manoeuvre, that there was something he could do or say to convince Mario to stay.

Instead, Mario looked at him miserably. When he finally spoke, the words barely registered above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Marco. I’m so sorry”.

The apology hung in the air between them, a piss-poor olive branch if Marco had ever seen one.

He could hear Mario try to keep the shakes out of his breathing. Mario looked down, his eyes now at the level of the bedframe. He seemed tired, as washed-out as Marco had ever seen him.

On any other occasion, Marco would have moved closer to him, touched him, done anything to alleviate whatever he was feeling. And even now, he still wanted to trace a thumb across the skin of Mario’s cheek like he normally did. Mario’s cheek was softer than the skin of any man who played with death for a living had a right to be, and Marco wanted to reach for it.

But he didn’t. He remained rooted to his mattress, unable to do anything other than _look_ at Mario. It suddenly struck him that he might lose even that simple ability soon enough.  

“I’m sorry, Marco. I’m so sorry. I just -- ” Mario repeated, and then faltered, “ – I had to tell you before we drifted. I didn’t want you to find out like that. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Marco didn’t respond.

“Say something. Please.” Mario implored him. “I can’t handle your silence. Please just say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Marco asked sharply, and the question came out like a whiplash, impossible to take back once it had been snapped. “What am I supposed to say to you?”

Mario froze, as though the words had fallen on his skin. He didn’t retaliate but his eyes became glassy, and Marco’s heart twisted in the way that only making a bad situation worse can do.

The heavy silence that followed was pierced only by the shrill ringing of Mario’s phone. He ignored it at first, and the call disconnected, but the caller rang back again immediately. Mario took a deep breath, reluctantly pulled it out of his pocket, and swore when he saw who it was.

“It’s Klopp.” He said, and the quivers still hadn’t deserted his voice. He looked back up at Marco and the wounded weight in his eyes was still there. “I better go.”

“Fine.”

“We’ll talk.”

Marco nodded.

Mario breathed out a long, heavy breath, nodded, and stood up. He returned the chair to the desk and left with a tense look back at Marco. He made sure to close the door behind him.

After he left, Marco remained where he was for a long time without moving or saying anything. Muffled music continued to blare through his walls for a while, but after an hour or so, it stopped. Mats knocked on his door at some point and asked if he wanted to go find some food, but Marco didn’t answer. He sat there and thought about Anchorage and Löw, and decisions that had already been made.

He thought about the future and it suddenly terrified him, because he couldn’t see what was in it. Mario was the other half of his whole, his co-pilot and drift partner and training partner and best friend. But now Mario was leaving, and Marco was going to lose the biggest part of his day.

He knew that what they did wasn’t easy on Mario. He knew that everyone who did it struggled with it, but that Mario struggled more than most. But he had believed that they were getting through it okay, together. It hurt to think that it was no longer enough - that _he_ was no longer enough. Marco thought that they had been as happy as their circumstances would allow.

But maybe it had been just him.

He gave up thinking sometime after midnight and crawled underneath his covers. He would go see Mario tomorrow. They would talk. He would apologise. Maybe Mario would too. Maybe he would even sleep on the decision and change his mind.

* * *

Except Mario was nowhere to be seen at breakfast.

By now, he had been absent at two meals. People began to notice and ask Marco questions about what where he was. He deflected them by saying that Mario had a few things to sort out. He consoled himself with the fact that it was still the truth, if only in the strictest, most technical sense. Marco forced down his breakfast and coffee, even though they tasted like chalk, and then he left breakfast earlier than normal to go to Mario’s room.

He ran into Mats two corridors down from Mario’s door. Mats was coming from the opposite direction, heading back to the lab, glasses askew on top of his head and with several heavy book balanced precariously in his arms.

“Marco? Hey. Where are you going?”

“Mario’s room.”

“Yeah?” Mats frowned.

“Yeah.”

“He’s, uh … he’s not here. I saw him leave really early this morning when I was on my way to the lab. He said he was going to the city for the day to meet someone. ”

“Did he say with who?”

“I didn’t ask.” Mats replied. Then he narrowed his eyes in concern. Marco could tell that Mats was taken aback at being the party with information. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” Marco answered calmly. He excused himself and kept walking.

His steps to Mario’s room had been heavy with trepidation, but his steps away were fuelled by something else, something red and simmering and raw that felt more caustic than anything he had felt the night before. It ate away at him from the inside and he allowed it to do so, because Mario shouldn’t have put him in that position. Mario shouldn’t have let him find out things from _Mats_.

It was Marco and Mario’s day off duty, but he eventually found himself in the Kwoon Combat Room anyway. He decided to stay, and spent the day partnered with Kehli because it was easier than sitting around and waiting for Mario to return. If Kehli sensed that something was amiss, he knew better than to mention it to Marco. They spent the morning and most of the afternoon training in Krav Maga and beating each other down onto the mats. Marco trained till his t-shirt clung to him, till his muscles sang, till Kehli threw him a bottle of water before dinner and told him _enough_.

Mario wasn’t at dinner either, and after forcing down his third meal of the day and tasting none of it, Marco retreated to his room. He read without reading a single word till half past eight. Then he waited, and waited, and waited, in increasing vain.

Eventually, Mats messaged to say that he had seen Mario come back and enter his room. From Mario, there was radio silence. Marco looked at Mats’ message for a few moments again.

Then, taking even himself by surprise, he tossed his phone onto his desk and remained right where he was. He realized that he didn’t want to go. It could wait till tomorrow. He went to bed.

Only, he didn’t look for Mario the next morning. Mario never came looking for him either.

At some point, he realized they were avoiding each other.

 


	2. Battery In Your Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Mario continue to skirt around each other. Marshal Klopp and Mats intervene.

The following day, Marco learned that Mario had accepted the position. He didn’t hear it from Mario himself, or even from Klopp. He overheard it instead, while walking a few steps behind Neven and Nuri on the way to lunch.

Neven let the news slip, not realising that Marco was a few steps behind. Marco slowed down even further and listened as Neven told Nuri how he had seen Mario emerge from Klopp’s office. Neven intercepted him on the way back to his room, and Mario told him that he had just resigned. He was due to leave soon, apparently. When Marco eventually caught up to them in the queue for lunch, tray in hand, the two of them dropped the subject entirely. He didn’t ask any questions.

The news then rippled out through the Shatterdome, passing from mouth to ear, but no one dared to breach the subject with Marco. He found himself receiving silent looks with a sympathetic edge, the kind you got when someone close to you dies. Others avoided his eye altogether. He passed the next few days much like the few days beforehand, going from meals to training to sleep, rinse lather repeat, all with the disquieting feeling that conversations were being hushed around him.

He found himself thinking that people weren’t nearly as discreet as they liked to think they were.

Marco didn’t see Mario for three days. And then it was four. And then it was five. And then Neven mentioned to him something about a leaving party, and Marco said that he didn’t want to think about it. Neven said something else too, about talking and closure and _you can’t be okay with this_. Marco gave him a look that said the conversation was over. Neven dropped it, and said he’d talk to Mats about organising something small instead.

The more days passed without them speaking, the more Marco threw himself into training instead. He poached training partners from anyone who would let him, fighting whoever was in the Combat Room – like Ilkay, or Kuba, or Shinji, or even Erik– and his muscles screamed at him. He ignored them, just like he ignored Kehli’s counsel as he supervised the fights. Their conversations would go something like this:

 _He’s leaving soon_ , Kehli would say.

 _Don’t remind me_ , Marco would reply sharply.

Kehli would throw him a towel or a bottle of water and look at him like a concerned parent. _I’m just saying_.

 _Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you, did I_?

He fought till his body said no more, till he gave in to sleep halfway to his bed at the end of each night. 

* * *

The longer they avoided each other, the harder it became for Marco to summon the courage to find him. Something had fractured between them, and each passing day lengthened and deepened the crack. But Marco spent so much time running his hands over the fissure, comparing it to how smooth the surface used to be, that he wondered whether it was already too late to put things right. 

When Kehli banned him from the Combat Room for a week – _you’re pushing your body too far. You’re going to hurt yourself_. _Klopp’ll kill me and then fire me_ , he said _-_ Marco took to leaving the Shatterdome.

He bundled a scarf around his neck, shoved his hands deep in the pockets of the leather jacket he had brought from home, and took long walks around the suburbs nearby. When the PPDC began constructing the Shatterdome in 2016, it bought out the surrounding land and properties, and nature had slowly but surely reclaimed them for its own. Past the outermost PPDC checkpoint, there was nothing but empty streets, overgrown front lawns with knee-length grass, and properties that had once been opulent.

Marco liked wandering past the checkpoints till he reached the cliff-side and its ocean views. The Pacific might have been the literal mouth of hell, but it seemed calm and endless in those moments, and it was still beautiful to behold on a cold morning.

Sometimes his phone rang when he was out – Mats, mostly – but Marco pocketed it unless there was a breach alert, and none came. They seemed to be in the midst of a quiet spell.

On the Thursday morning, seven days after the news of Mario’s departure had seeped through the ranks, Marco was on his way out again. He had almost reached the third internal security point when a voice boomed out from behind him, loud enough to pierce through his headphones.

“Marco. MARCO.”

He stopped walking and looked irritably towards the door and how close it was. When he turned around, he saw Mats jogging up to him, and it seemed as though he had been running for a while. His hair was unkempt and he took a few moments to catch his breath.

“Jesus,” Mats said hoarsely. “I’ve only been calling you for the last 100 metres.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“It’s a wonder you hear anything at all,” Mats said, nodding towards Marco’s headphones,  “with those volumes.”

“You wanted something?” Marco asked flatly. “I’m going out.”

“Reschedule. The Marshal wants to see you in his office. Yesterday.”

“I’ll see him when I get back. I won’t be gone for long.”

“Look, Marco. Just … don’t, okay?” Mats said, sounding as tired as he looked. “Being mad at Mario is one thing, but disobeying a summons from command is another. You have a right to be upset, not a right to be insubordinate. Go see Klopp. Now. ”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s staging some sort of intervention for you and Mario. This thing between you two – it’s getting ridiculous.”

Marco’s hand tightened around his phone in his pocket. “Not my fault.”

“That’s debatable.” Mats replied. “But whatever. None of my business. Just go find Klopp, before you get us both in trouble.”

* * *

Klopp’s office was on the highest level of the Shatterdome and overlooked the Jaegar launching facility. It had floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and they had been reinforced several times over to keep out the noise of the 24 hour mechanical work going on below. Klopp could often be found thinking in front of them, looking out over the Jaegers like a father contemplating his children.

The office itself was a peculiar space, and a story of diverging priorities. The space was huge, appropriately grand for the most senior commissioned officer in the Shatterdome – but Klopp had never adorned it with the ornaments Marco had seen in other military offices. Klopp had stories to tell, and the medals and honours to prove them, but the ivory walls of his office remained blank.  He occupied the space as impersonally as he could, filling it instead with tables and papers and files and charts. Klopp had once explained to Marco that he hated his office, and that if he was spending most of his time behind his desk, then he wasn’t doing his job properly.

Marco made his way to Klopp’s office, this time with flames of anger licking at the inside of his throat. When he knocked on the closed door and was invited to enter, he found Klopp looking out the windows.

“Marshal.” Marco said. “You sent for me?”

Klopp turned around and Marco could see that he looked tired. His military suit was crisp and impeccable but it seemed to sit wearily on his shoulders. He regarded Marco with disappointment, the kind of look he used to get from his parents when he disobeyed his curfew.

“Mats found you, then.”

“He did. I was going out.”

“You can go out later.” Klopp replied, nodding towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

Marco took the left chair and waited. For what exactly, he wasn’t yet sure.

“I presume you know why I’ve summoned you.” Klopp said, sinking into the comfortable leather of his own chair and leaning back into it.

“I suppose.”

“When are you going to speak to him?”

A flare of irritation lashed in Marco’s stomach, but he kept his tone under control. “He hasn’t come to speak to me either, you know.”

Klopp regarded Marco tiredly from above his glasses.

“Behaving as petulantly as Mario,” he replied flatly, “does not give you any moral high ground with me. Both of you should know better. Clearly, neither of you do. I’m not particularly impressed with either of you at the moment.”

Marco looked out the windows for a moment, his cheeks growing uncomfortably warm. He didn’t need to hear it to know it, but hearing it was difficult all the same. Hearing it from Klopp was somehow worse.

“This job that he’s accepted,” Marco said, changing focus, “in Anchorage. What is it?”

“That’s a question you should be asking him, not me. I suggest you move quickly. I presume you know that he’s leaving two days from now.”

Marco did not.

Something sank in his chest and settled heavily there, a realization that sat like a dead weight above his stomach. If Klopp could tell that he had been taken aback by the news, he didn’t react at all.

After a few moments, Marco finally managed to say something.

“That’s soon.”

“They offered him a much earlier start. He chose defer it for a few days.”

“Did he say why?”

 “He didn’t offer me an explanation. I decided not to ask.”

“And you’re okay with it?” Marco asked, though he was indifferent to the answer because all he could think about was _two days_. “You’re just … you’re going to let him leave.”

“It isn’t my place to give or deny him permission, Marco. As difficult as it is for me to watch him go, it’s his choice, and he’s made it. There’s nothing for me to approve.”

“So what happens to me? What am I supposed to do without a co-pilot?”

Klopp sighed and took off his glasses. He tossed them on top of a stack of folders to his right and rubbed at his eyes,

“Mario tendered his resignation to me several days ago, with immediate effect. Conveniently, it didn’t cause any immediate problems with the duty roster. Lukasz and Kuba remain on standby for the rest of the week, and Ilkay and Shinji are on duty the following week. You and Mario were due to be on duty the week after that. Obviously, that cannot go ahead, so I’ve reassigned the duty to Sven and Oliver. In the meantime, you will serve as first standby if a Ranger falls sick or is otherwise out of action, for whatever reason.”

“No one ever falls sick or remains out of action.” 

“And long may it remain that way.” Klopp said sharply. “But if you’re curious about your future, I’ve decided that you’re to be assigned a new partner. I’ve begun making inquiries with the appropriate channels.”

“ … what?”

“I believe you heard me well enough.”

 “Sir – “

“This Shatterdome, Marco, has the widest deployment radius across the PPDC.” Klopp said briskly. “I’m uncomfortable with having only three active Ranger partnerships for a prolonged period of time. We need a fourth, and you’re my best ranger. You’re also one of the best active rangers in the world. Mario’s withdrawal from active duty does not affect this. You’re to be assigned a new partner and you’ll be restored to active duty status as soon as practicable.”

“I see.” Marco said, still reeling. “But it’s not your position to try and refuse Mario’s resignation.”

And he was being petty, and _god_ , he knew he was being petty. But Mario was leaving in two days, and the anger had loosened his tongue. He didn’t have the energy to pretend to be bigger than the resentment and anger and sadness he felt.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I’m going to presume that this is your grief speaking.” Klopp said, in a tone that would freeze water. “Listen to me, Marco. Mario has chosen to go elsewhere. When he made that decision, he released himself from under my authority. I have to respect his decision, as must you. But you – for all the uncharacteristic insubordination you’ve displayed this afternoon – appear to be remaining here with us in this Shatterdome. For as long you’re here, you remain under my authority. While you remain under my authority, you will do as I say.”

 “And if I leave? What if I –“ Marco began, but the threat remained incomplete.

Even as he made it, knew it was hollow. He knew he’d go back to his room that night and smother himself in his pillow trying not to think about the fact that it had escaped his lips, and that he hadn’t been mature enough to stop it.

Klopp must have seen through it too. He seemed completely unperturbed.

“If you what? If you follow him?”

When Marco didn’t respond, Klopp continued.

“This Shatterdome can’t afford to lose you too. However, if – after a period of _careful_ and _considered_ reflection, and _only_ then – “ he said, emphasizing the words, “ – you decide that you want to leave, then I won’t stand in your way. But I think we both know that you have no such intention.”

Marco sank further into his seat, and picked at the stitching on its leather arm with his thumb. Klopp watched him, perfectly still, and he seemed to be in no hurry for Marco to comb through whatever knot had formed in his chest.

“So what happens now?” Marco finally said.

“He packs. He goes. The world continues to spin on its axis. Nothing here will collapse. Neither will you.”

“Permission to speak frankly, sir?”

“Speak, and then I’ll decide.”

“When you drift with someone – even just – even just coming out of the drift is hard.” Marco said. He exhaled, and continued. “And I’m supposed to be okay with losing that – him – and you want me to do it with someone else? Someone I don’t know? Who I’ve never met?”

“I don’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. But I appreciate that this must be exceedingly difficult for you.”

“So what, then? What am I supposed to do?” Marco said.

Klopp leaned forward and brought his hands together on the desk. He looked thoughtfully at Marco.

“First of all, I think you need to take a break. You need to go home for a while. You’re overdue a rest.”

“With respect, sir, I don’t think that’ll help.” He said, his anger ebbing as a sense of weary sadness flowed through him. “I just - I don’t know if I can do it without him.”

“Then I suggest you tell him that.”

“He’s made his decision. There’s no point.”

“You misunderstand me. Telling him has nothing to do with trying to make him stay.”

“And say what?” Marco said, raising his hands in frustration.

“It’s not my place to tell you, but you owe him your honesty. Go do it now.” Klopp replied. “And I’m not speaking to you as your Marshal. I’m speaking to you as someone older than you and wiser than you, who recognizes your avoidant tendencies for what they are. Look, Marco. I can’t force you and Mario to stay in the same room and talk things out. But, I can promise you that you’ll regret leaving things as they are. It’s just not right. Not after all that you’ve been through with him.”

* * *

When Marco left Klopp’s office, he paused outside the closed door for a little while. He thought about where to go. He thought about leaving the Shatterdome for a few hours and walking off the anger and embarrassment he felt. He decided to go to Mario’s room instead. It was a testament to how much he trusted Klopp, because his word to Klopp was the only thing putting one foot after another in that moment, taking him in the direction of Mario’s room rather than his own, or outside, or anywhere else.

There was no one around in Mario’s corridor when he arrived, and Marco breathed a silent prayer of relief. A week of silence didn’t need to end in front of an audience. He decided to let himself in without knocking because although they had avoided each other, Mario’s key’s was still on his keychain, and Mario hadn’t asked for it back.

He unlocked the door, walked in gingerly and closed the door behind him.

The lights were on inside but the room was empty, and Mario was nowhere to be seen. He had already taken his posters down, and for the first time in three years, Marco saw the walls. He had never paid attention to their off-blue colour before, so thoroughly had Mario wall-papered them with posters and momentos from home. 

The other thing that caught Marco’s eye was a large roll of packing paper in the middle of the floor, and next to it, two open suitcases that were each half-full. 

Marco leaned back against the closed door and breathed in the sight of the room. He had spent as much time in here as he had in his own room, and he had grown used to it looking a certain way. It belonged to Mario but Mario was stripping it of every trace of himself, so that it belonged to the Shatterdome once more, for whoever was next going to fill his shoes.

Marco knew that Mario was leaving, but realization washed over him like a cold shower and only then did he really _know_ it in his core. Over the next few days, he would learn that this was only the first in a series of little shocks, each a small but jagged reminder that things had changed. For now, it numbed him for a few moments.  

Eventually, he left. He didn’t bother leaving a note, and told himself he’d find Mario another time. He locked the door behind him and this time, he only half-believed the promise himself.

* * *

Mats eventually lost his patience with Marco two nights later, on the night of Mario’s leaving party, the night before Mario left.

Marco was in bed, eyes closed, headphones in, his mind at the party even if his body wasn’t. He didn’t hear Mats knock and then bang on the door, and he didn’t hear him come in, or see him walk across the room. In fact, Marco only realized that he wasn’t alone when he felt his earphones being yanked violently from his ears.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Mats’ wrathful face hovering above him.

“What the fuck, Mats. I was listening to that.”

“Get up.” Mats said, his voice like the calm before a storm. “And get changed. Or so help me god, Marco, I will force you up and dress you myself.”

“I’m not going. I was – “

“Shut up. I don’t care.” Mats interrupted. “You’re going now.”

“No. I’m not.” Marco repeated.

 _And you can’t make me_ felt like an appropriate ending for the sentence, given the tone he was using. There must have been a way to express his resentment without coming off like a petulant six year old, but it seemed beyond his reach.

“You’re upset with him. That’s okay. That’s justified. I’m with you on that front.” Mats said. “But _christ_ , Marco. Be the bigger man. Don’t be the bigger asshole.”

“Maybe I _am_ an asshole.” Marco replied indifferently.

Mats raised his hands to the heavens and looked to the ceiling like it could help him. Marco had seen him angry only once, when a sample of Kaiju tissue from Lima had gone missing from his lab, but the flame of that incident didn’t hold a candle to his expression now. Anger came off him like it was radiating from his pores.

“No, you’re _not_.” Mats said. “I know – for reasons which remain completely beyond me – that you like to think you are, but you’re _not_. You’re nice. And you’re too nice to be this disrespectful to your closest friend in this Shatterdome on the day he leaves it.”

Marco sat up and cast aside his phone aside, eyes narrow and tone bitter.

“You want me to go downstairs and pretend to be happy for him? Because I can’t do that. Okay? I can’t."

“I’m not asking you to smile and clap along. I want you to go downstairs and be a _decent_ _human_ _being_. Just go, and _be_ there.”

“Mats. I can’t.” Marco insisted tersely. “He’s shut me out of the biggest decision of his life. One that affects me too. He hasn’t said a word to me since he told me that Löw had called him. And he’s leaving tomorrow. I don’t want to look at him knowing that he won’t be there anymore, okay? I don’t want to. I _can’t_.”

Mats’s expression softened. He sat down on the bed next to Marco and took Marco’s face in his hands – to make him feel better, or perhaps to hold him still, Marco wasn’t sure.

“Listen to me. No one knows what you’re going through. And no one wants you to put on an act for yourself, or for Mario, or for the rest of us. And I don’t know what the hell happened between you two over the last week, and I’m not trying to try to get in the way, but it’s not right. I mean - _shit_ , Marco. You and Mario – you two _did_ things, okay? You’ve literally saved the world together. Go downstairs and honour that. Honour him. Honour the two of you,”

Marco grimaced under Mats’ gentle grip.

“Jesus, Mats.” He said resentfully. “Don’t bring honour into it.”

“You can’t keep honour out of it.”

“I don’t want to go, and Mario’s going to know it that the second I walk into the room.”

“He probably will.” Mats conceded. “And it’ll mean that much more to him that you came anyway.”

When Marco sighed, Mats took that as a sign of success and let go of him. He got up and made his way to Marco’s clothes, presumably to find him something to wear. Marco watched despondently as Mats began rifling first through the dresser, and then through the small mountain of clothes on the floor that functioned as an extension of Marco’s closet. He picked through the items and pulled out a black hoodie that might have been serviceable in a less crumpled state.

Mats pressed it to his nose, sniffed, grimaced, and tossed it behind him.

“You’re fucking disgusting.” He declared, before pulling out a faded navy jumper and a pair of dark grey chinos and throwing them at Marco. “Put these on.”

Marco regarded him irritably. “We can’t all look like you.”

“Yes, but we can all aspire to minimum standards of personal hygiene. And put some cologne on.” Mats shot back, pausing for a moment before adding, “Be generous.”

“You know what, Mats? Fuck you.” He said, flipping Mats two middle fingers and wishing he had more hands. “I’ll get changed and meet you over at the OD.”

Mats pulled out the chair from Marco’s desk and took a seat. He folded his arms stubbornly.

“No. I think I’ll wait for you here.”

Marco stared at him.

“I said I’d come, didn’t I?”

“I know, but I don’t trust you. And you’re going down there, slung over my shoulder or not.”

“Did Klopp put you up to this?”

“No, but I’m sure I’d have his blessing. Now get changed.”

* * *

They made their way over to the seventh floor observation deck, and it seemed like all 350 odd staff were there when they arrived. Music was coming from somewhere but it was washed out by the sound of conversation. A small mountain of food was to the left and Oliver was overseeing the makeshift bar set up on the right of the deck, with Klopp’s watchful eye not too far away. The party was taking place in full view of their Jaeger, Indigo Omega. Marco’s chest clenched at the sight of it. He’d be piloting it with someone else.

Marco shook the thought out of his head and tried not to scan the room for Mario but did it anyway. He found him talking to Mitch and Miki and laughing like nothing was wrong, and neither his face nor the sound of his laughter bore traces of any of whatever Marco was feeling. 

Mats’ lips were suddenly at his ear. “Don’t stare at him like that. Jesus.”

Marco turned and gave him a sour-grape look. “How do I honour him if I’m not allowed to look at him?”

“There’s a healthy medium somewhere. Find it.”

Mats pulled him in the direction of Lukasz and Kuba, and Marco spent most of the night skulking in their company. Neither tried to make small-talk with him, and they were good enough sports that Marco didn’t feel too guilty for contributing an approximate total of eight words to the entire conversation. He nursed the drink that Nuri had planted in his hand at some point, a sickly sweet concoction of some sort, and tried his hardest to listen to what Lukasz and Kuba were saying. It wasn’t easy though, distracted as he was by the terrible feeling that he should just _go over_ to Mario, but not being able to will his feet to take the first steps.

Marco spied him out the entire night but they didn’t talk at all. Everyone grabbed a piece of Mario’s time, and Marco knew that he should just go over there and take some for himself, but he couldn’t. He somehow didn’t feel entitled to Mario’s attention or time anymore. And yet, at the same time, a part of him still felt like he was more entitled than anyone else in the room.

Their eyes met a few times, but Marco couldn’t read anything from him. Eventually, someone else would ask Mario a question or say something to him, and he would turn back to them, beaming.

After a couple of hours, Klopp tapped a fork against his wine glass and called everyone’s attention for speeches.

Nobby went first. He spoke fondly of scouting Mario and Marco at the Jaeger Academy, when they were both more youthful and fresh-faced, despite enduring the kind of training that was meant to break your spirit. He spoke about the lengths that it took to convince Mario to come to the Sydney facility, because he had set his heart on going to Lima. He spoke about watching Mario grow from a feisty boy to a determined man, from a recruit to a Ranger, from a novice to a friend. Mario listened with the embarrassed smile of someone being showered with more praise than he was comfortable receiving. 

Nuri went second. He spoke about the time Mario was in the medical wing for two weeks, and how he was the worst patient Nuri had ever seen. Then he talked more affectionately about Mario’s nickname – _Sunny_ – and all the reasons why it was appropriate. Nuri spoke, to the crowd and a mortified Mario, of his warmth, and the way he exuded energy, and the way the nickname reflected his disposition as well as it did the sheer gravitational pull of his personality on others.  Mario tried to hide behind Oliver with embarrassment, without much success.

Kuba spoke about taking Mario under his wing. Neven spoke about expeditions to steal donuts from the kitchen. Mats spoke about the time Mario accidentally shattered a thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment. 

And then Klopp spoke. The Marshal, ever the brief diplomat, stood up and told Mario that he knew he was onto bigger and better things, and he had the grace to genuinely mean it. He bid farewell to Mario like a father to a son. Mario looked down at the ground and it was obvious that he was swallowing back tears.

At the end of each speech, the crowd raised their glasses and drank to Mario. At the end of the toast after Klopp’s speech, Klopp turned to Marco, expression sombre, and Marco immediately knew what was going to be asked of him.

“Marco. You want to say something small?”

He knew, of course, that the only acceptable answer was yes.

Marco searched for Mario’s eyes in the crowd. When he found that they were already with him, his mind went white, and words deserted him like water through a sieve. The problem, Marco realized, wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say to Mario. The problem was wanting to say too much, and not wanting to say any of it in front of an audience.

“Mario.” He finally said.

He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice but he stumbled on the _rio_ , his voice wavering. He had given himself away to the whole room.

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” He said simply, breathing out.

And across the room, sandwiched between Kehli and Neven, Mario looked too sad to smile. He simply nodded slowly, biting down on his lips. For the first time, Marco felt like Mario was feeling an ounce of all that he had been feeling.

“Yeah.” Mario replied softly, and the entire room heard it but it was meant only for him. “Yeah, we did.”

Marco raised his glass. “Well. Here’s to those. And to you. And to us. And to everything we did. The Wonderkids.”

A loud response – _The Wonderkids!_ – reverberated around the observation deck, louder than the ones that had followed the other toasts. Mario and Marco took sips of their drinks and held each other’s gazes.   

* * *

Marco excused himself from the gathering about half an hour later without telling anyone. Lukasz and Kuba nodded in understanding when they noticed him leaving. Mats saw him go too, and caught his eye but didn’t say anything.

Marco went back to his room and was glad to close the door behind him. He lay down, still in his clothes, and stared at his ceiling.  The leaving party had felt like a funeral without any of the closure. The numbness that had found him during his toast hadn’t gone away.

His heart slipped on its beat when, well after midnight, there was a knock on his door. After a few seconds, Marco heard a key slip in and unlock it. His heart lurched again when Mario came in, switched on the light, and closed the door behind him.

When Marco sat up and looked at him, he found that he wasn’t angry like before. He hadn’t been angry since he had finally seen sadness in Mario’s face at the party. When he looked at Mario now, it just _hurt_.

Mario attempted a smile and didn’t quite succeed.

“Since when you did you lie down in the dark and stare at the ceiling?”

“Since when did you knock?” Marco replied.

Mario leaned back against the door, even though the space between the door and Marco’s bed was normally a mere afterthought. 

“You still think this is easy for me, don’t you?” Mario said gently.

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. That’s why you’re angry at me. You think I don’t mind leaving you behind.”

“I never said that. I never said anything. We haven’t really said much of anything to each other over the last week.”

Mario nodded, looked down at the floor. He lingered against the doorframe and his muscles were taut with hesitation.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” Marco asked suddenly.

The words came out small and wounded, different to the sharper ones that had preceded them. Small and wounded wasn’t how Marco wanted to sound, but it was a fair reflection of how he felt.

Mario closed his eyes for a moment. Marco noticed the hollows around them for the first time.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you… but you have to understand. None of this is easy for me.”

“I had to find out everything from everyone else.” Marco continued. “From Neven. And _Mats_. And _Kevin_ – when you should have told me everything first. I should have been the first to know.”

“I know. I know. And I’m sorry.” Mario repeated softly. “But I can’t leave with things like this between us.”

“So what, we pretend like this last week never happened?”

Mario’s fingers snaked their way around the chain on his neck. He coiled it around his fingers till it seemed to cut off the blood supply. They started turning red.

“You think it’s easy for me to think about you getting a new co-pilot?” He said, his voice rough. “You think I don’t struggle with the thought of you drifting with someone else?”

“Not enough to make you want to stay.”

Mario froze. He stared at Marco for a few moments, like the words had been a slap in the face. When he gathered himself a little, he moved onto the bed next to Marco, the shock still traceable in the frown that creased his brow.

“Marco. Listen. Me leaving? It has nothing to do with you. It’s everything else. It’s this job. I just … I can’t do it anymore. I’m sick of waking up each morning not knowing whether I’m going to be dead by lunch. I’m sick of the weight of a city on my shoulders. I’m sick of being celebrated for doing something I hate.” He said, and his eyes searched Marco’s for understanding. “And you _know_. You _know_ how hard it is for me, more than anyone else. I don’t need to tell you anything. You’ve seen it all.”

And he had.

Marco thought back to the drift, to all the blue-tinged fragments of Mario’s fear that he had seen and felt himself, to all the nights after missions when he had held onto a silent Mario.

He nodded slowly, and Mario continued.

“For a long time,” he said quietly, “I didn’t leave because I didn’t know what else I could do. And then Löw called and offered me this job – and suddenly I had an exit.”

“So where that does that leave us?” Marco asked defeatedly.

“You’ll get another partner, and you’ll keep saving the world, and you’ll move on like I was never here.” Mario said.

“You’re an idiot, if you think I can replace you.”

Mario cupped his hands to Marco’s face, and brought their foreheads together.

“And you’re the only thing that made me want to stay back. My only regret about taking this job is leaving you. This. Us.” He said, sighing. “I thought about turning him down, y’know. But I’m tired, Marco. Not of you – never of you – but of all the rest of it.”

Mario held him now, but normally, Marco did the holding. Mario needed the comfort, the solidity of someone keeping him tethered to the ground, the sound of someone telling him it was going to be okay.

Marco sighed, pressed his cheek more deeply against Mario’s palm. “I don’t want to be the thing that chains you to something you hate.” He said quietly, and he meant it, as much as knew that its consequences would hurt.

“I know. I figured. That’s why I took the job.”

Marco nodded, and mused that it was a cold and comfortless comfort.

 “Are you all packed?” Marco asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah. I finished this afternoon. My plane comes at five in the morning.”

“It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

“I was thinking I could stay here with you.”

“Is that a good idea?” Marco said quietly.

“Probably not.” Mario replied, all gentle defiance. “Are you going to send me away, though?”

“Probably not.”

So Marco delayed the process of weaning himself off Mario again. They hadn’t talked for a week but this was something that their bodies knew how to do of their own accord. They climbed into bed together like they did so often, and he held onto Mario tightly, realized how much he had missed the scent of him, and the way the back of his hair prickled at Marco’s nose.

At some point, Marco must have fallen asleep himself, because he eventually found himself waking up to an empty room. The clock above his door said 7.30am. Then he noticed the spare key to his room, resting on top of his book on the nightstand, and it made his chest contract.

Marco rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and went to take a shower. He stood underneath it until his skin shrivelled and the hot water ran cold, and then for a little while longer.


	3. No Distance Left To Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey!
> 
> 1\. This chapter has taken a while, for which I apologize. I got super-busy with work, but I finally found time to sit down and edit.  
> 2\. There are mentions of death, and anxiety. Nothing particularly graphic, but I'm flagging it just in case.  
> 3\. The drift compatibility science used in this chapter was developed by the wonderful [Confabulatrix](http://confabulatrix.tumblr.com/post/96325194345/drift-science-and-compatibility) under a creative commons license. Praise and cookies upon them.  
> 4\. So, uh, a transfer window has come and gone since the last time I posted a chapter. I've decided to ignore it. Klopp is still the Marshal of this Shatterdome (though much love to Tuchel, of course!).
> 
> Enjoy!

Marco eventually pulled himself out of the shower and put on the same clothes he wore the night before. He paused for a moment to gather himself before leaving the room, hand on the doorknob. No one would see him upset.

Luckily, the corridors between his room and the mess hall were quiet when he finally left. It was relatively late in the morning. He figured most people would be at their stations by now.

He walked and thought to himself, _this is how it goes now_. Life would be much the same – the same setting, the same routine, the same characters – identical in all the ways that didn’t matter, but different in the single way that did. But for now, there was breakfast to get. The mess hall staff acknowledged him by the same bored glances with which they graced everyone. But on his way to sit down, Marco counted an extra egg and a few more rashers of bacon on his plate.

He made his way to Erik and Matze, the only two people left in the cavernous concrete room. They exchanged a brief, hesitant look when Marco put his tray down on their table, but they relaxed a little when he told them to ignore him and keep talking like he wasn’t there. They resumed their conversation, and he poked at his food and only half-listened.

After a while, a hand put two mugs on the table in front of him. A rich, dark scent wafted upwards and went straight to his head. Coffee.

 _Good coffee_ , he thought. The machine brew in Marco’s mug suddenly tasted like ash.

Marco looked up and saw Klopp, who was smiling kindly at Erik and Matze.

“Gentlemen. Can you please excuse Marco and I for a few minutes?”

They nodded and made themselves scarce, moving a few tables away, but they looked back curiously anyway. Marco ignored them. Klopp sat down in front of him and pushed one of the mugs in his direction. Marco accepted it silently, and the first sip fell on his tongue like rich, bitter velvet.

“Thanks, it’s good.”

“It’s from my personal stash.” Klopp said. “And I expect your confidentiality.”

“Might cost you more of this.” Marco said, nodding towards his mug.

“Don’t push your luck.” Klopp said. He looked at Marco thoughtfully, brows crossed over his thick-rimmed glasses. “So. You didn’t come to see Mario off this morning.”

“We said goodbye yesterday.”

“I see. Well. I’m glad you two worked things out.”

Marco shrugged and took another sip, cradling the warm black mug in his cold palms. “I don’t know if we worked things out. We talked.”

“You aren’t where you were three days ago. This is an improvement.”

“We aren’t where we were two weeks ago, either.”

Klopp sighed like a man who knew better than to press a point. Marco picked up his fork again and stabbed at some bacon.

“I’ve been thinking about what we discussed in my office.” Klopp finally said. “About your leave.”

“I don’t need to take leave. I’m fine.” Marco replied. After a pause, he added, “And if you don’t believe me, then I will be. Soon.”

“I don’t doubt that. But this isn’t about Mario. You’ve been here since this Shatterdome became operational. You haven’t taken more than seven successive days of leave at a time. And you haven’t gone home in three years, Marco. It’s well overdue.”

“So it’s not about Mario. But you’re raising it on the day he leaves.”

Klopp thought for a moment before answering. “Mario’s departure provided an unexpected opportunity to raise the point. I won’t pretend that it wasn’t convenient. In any case, I’m sending you home for two months.”

Marco leaned back in his seat. His thumb flicked at a small chip in the ceramic of his mug. When he finally spoke, it took a lot of control to steady his tone.

“Two months is a long time.”

“Two months is nothing. Three years away from your family, though - _that_ is a long time. When you return, I’ll expect you to resume active duty. Till then, you’re on break.”

“And if I decline?”

“Then the leave will be entered as enforced rather than voluntary. I’ll also note you down for insubordination.” Klopp said calmly. He took a long sip of his coffee.  “But just in case you’re that way inclined, I’ve taken the liberty of having your flights booked. I’ve also informed your parents that you're coming. You depart a week from now. If you wish to tell them that there’s been a change of plans, then please. Be my guest.”

* * *

Marco’s flight out of Sydney was booked for early on a Saturday morning. He filled in the days leading up to it with whatever he could.  He spent time with Mats in the lab. He tidied his room and saw the floor for the first time in a long time. He did his laundry. He went into the city and bought three years worth of overdue birthday and Christmas gifts.

Sometimes he thought about calling Mario to see how things were going in Anchorage, but he kept finding excuses not to. Maybe the time difference wasn’t right. Maybe Mario was still adjusting. Maybe he needed his space.

When Saturday came around, he woke up with a heavy heart. Mats and Nuri got up to see him off, and although he humoured their early-morning jabs about never coming back, he did so reluctantly. He wanted to go home, to see his family, but he wanted to do so without leaving. He couldn’t get his head around two months without work. It seemed like an infinite amount of time.

His heart only lightened when, almost 48 hours later, he got off his third and final flight to find his entire family waiting at the airport. And he only realized how tense he had been when he finally set foot inside his home. He shed his bags, and then his coat, and then a weight that had been sitting on his chest for what seemed like weeks.

He told his mother he would nap for a few hours and be up in time for dinner. He ended up sleeping through the rest of that night and most of the next morning.

* * *

He decided over dinner the next day that if he was going to take a break, he would make it a clean one. He sent messages to Klopp, Mats, Neven and Lukasz that if they needed him, they should contact his parents. Then he turned off his phone, and put it in the bottom drawer of his desk.

For the first few days, he let his parents fuss over him. He went for long runs, watched movies in worn trackpants at midday, caught up with friends he hadn’t called in years. Mostly though, he sat with his family and had the kinds of conversations that only occurred face to face, with coffee and food and warmth.  The kind that you couldn’t replicate over the phone, or over a shaky internet connection.

An unstructured routine felt peculiar at first, but when it came back to him, he basked in it. He went to bed and revelled in not having to set an alarm clock. On the rare morning that he did, it was still better than waking up to the klaxons of a breach.

And yeah, sure, people recognised him at home, but the novelty of having him back wore away quickly. His neighbourhood was small, and people knew to leave him alone, and they also knew to shut out the occasional reporter who appeared to sniff for a story.

Other things were easier at home too. Mario was something he could avoid thinking about, because Mario had never been here. His home, his room, his family – that was a world that had existed before Mario, so unlike the Shatterdome, Marco could imagine it without him. He didn’t have to hear his name or find his stray t-shirts when rifling through drawers.

He didn’t forget him entirely, either, but it was easier to push him aside for a while.

* * *

Three weeks into his break, Marco received a call while vacuuming the living room. His mother threw him the phone from the hall, and he reclined with it on the couch.

“Marco speaking.”

“My boy.” Klopp said warmly, before unleashing a barrage of questions. “How are you? Are you rested? Are they feeding you?”

And in that moment – as good as it had been to be away, and as much as Marco had needed the mental and physical absence – Klopp’s gruffly affectionate tone brought a small smile to his face.

“They’re resting and feeding me better than you.”

“Are they, now.”

“They are. I might not come back. “

“I see.” Klopp replied, and Marco could hear his smile over the phone. “And how’s the job market in Dortmund? What would you do?”

“Something involving a suit. And clocking off at five thirty.”

“You’d be outside my door begging for your old job within a week.”

“You’d take me back before I asked.” Marco pointed out.

Klopp laughed, a hearty, rumbling sound that shook through Marco’s receiver.

“It’s good to hear you well, Marco. We’ve missed you. And you’ve missed a lot.”

Marco stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I heard.”

The breach had happened two weeks into his break, during the daytime in Australia, and in the dead of the European night. By the time Marco switched on the television late the next morning, the Kaiju had been located and killed. He watched the news coverage, utterly numbed, and then he broke his own rule and called Mats to check that everything was okay. It was. 

Marco spent the next few hours plastered in front of the television, his porridge and coffee growing cold. He was used to breaches, sure, but he wasn’t used to how they were covered outside. Because he knew that the coverage was sensationalist, but until he watched it for a good five or six hours that afternoon, he didn’t really _know_.

Back in the Shatterdome, Shinji and Ilkay would have returned from the mission and been sent immediately to medical. A few beers would have been cracked open by everyone else, but all teams would have moved on to preparing for the next breach. 

The outside world, Marco learned, took a more theatrical approach. Breaking news interruptions brought news that wasn’t breaking at all. Experts that had nothing to do with the Shatterdome shared their opinions. Shaky cellphone footage of the combat was replayed again, and again, and again. Shinji and Ilkay were feted like decorated war heroes, whereas back in the Shatterdome, they would have received nothing more than a firm clap on the shoulder from Klopp.

It was strange to think that at several points, he would have been given the same treatment. Again, he knew this – but also, he didn’t really _know_.

“I suspected that we were in for a breach.” Klopp said, breaking through Marco’s thoughts. “We were overdue. I also wouldn’t be surprised if the breaches became more regular from now on.”

“You’ve received intelligence?”

“No. Call it an unpleasant hunch.”

Klopp then paused.

The pause was hesitant, taken at the last moment, and Marco knew that something important was coming. He switched the phone to his other ear, and tried to stifle down his own unpleasant hunch.

“I do have a reason for calling you.” Klopp said finally. “You should know that your new co-pilot has arrived.”

In fact, Marco hadn’t been aware that Klopp had arranged one.

He didn’t say anything for several moments, and Klopp didn’t push him for a response. The weight that Marco had shed upon arriving at home flickered back to life in the doorway, and proceeded to crawl back towards his chest.

“What’s his name?”

“Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.” Klopp said. “He’s been here for a week.”

“Is he settling in?”

“Like clockwork. Neven seems to think you two have very much in common.”

Marco almost asked whether they had started taking Neven seriously, but decided against it. There was something else baying at his mind, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“What did you say his name was again?”

"Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.”

On second hearing, the name stirred a memory.

‘That sounds very familiar.”

“It should be. He used to serve at Lima.”

“Used to?”

“He’s been out of action for a year and a half.”

In his head, Marco worked back to eighteen months ago, and things began falling into place. A Kaiju had emerged near Lima. It died, but so did one of the pilots that had been sent to hunt it.

“Wait. Was he the one with the partner who – “

"Yes. Auba took an extended leave of absence afterwards.” Klopp answered. “Fortunately, he decided to resume active service around the same time we found ourselves with an unexpected vacancy. He’s exceptionally skilled, and your levels of experience are very comparable. I decided to offer him a position, subject to a drift compatibility assessment upon your return. He accepted.”

“I appreciate you letting me know.” Marco said, only meaning it by half.

“Truthfully, Marco, I was planning to tell you when you returned.” Klopp said. “However, Miki’s going to test your drift compatibility when you get back. I’m giving you notice so that you can grow accustomed to the news, on Miki's advice.”

“Thank you.” Marco said, and this time, he didn’t mean it at all.

* * *

At first, Marco resisted the urge to research Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang. However, in a moment of weakness on the third day after Klopp’s call, he succumbed.

He didn’t find much at first. The results were flooded with articles written after the death of his co-pilot, Amin Wad-Badur. Some had small biographies though, and from those, Marco pieced together a fractured picture. However, because Pierre-Emerick survived, he was relegated to a footnote in most of them.

His parents were from Gabon but he had been born in France. From there, he had lived in Italy, studied in England, and had eventually joined the PPDC. He and Amin had been the first rangers appointed to the Lima Shatterdome when it opened in August 2016. They completed eight successful missions before their tragedy.

There were lots of pictures of Pierre-Emerick in a black suit, head high but expression sombre. He had been a pall-bearer at Amin’s funeral, but there was little other information about him. He had a kill record worthy of the limelight, but he shunned the limelight fiercely anyway. There were no televised interviews, no radio appearances, no other debris of his celebrity.

* * *

Eight weeks passed. Marco found himself re-packing even though he felt like he had just unpacked. As his parents drove him to the airport, he reflected bitterly at how eight weeks had once seemed like a long time to him.

Marco didn’t sleep at all on the flights between Germany, Dubai, and Australia. A helicopter was waiting at Sydney Airport to take him directly to the Shatterdome, and although he could have done without the loud mechanical hum, he was glad for anything that would take him more quickly to his bed.

As the helicopter neared the Shatterdome’s helipad, Marco could see a figure in a hooded black jacket waiting for him at its edge. When it landed, he realized it was Neven. Marco lugged his bags onto the tarmac and left them there as Neven approached and enveloped him in a big hug, raked through his hair, and destroyed whatever shape was left to it after 40 hours of travel.

“Well, shit.” Neven declared, standing back to look at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was muscle mass.”

“It is.” Marco replied. “Also, fuck you.”

Neven ignored him and squeezed long, spidery fingers around Marco’s arms.

“Are these biceps? Does your mother season her cooking with steroids?”

“I go away for two months,” Marco said, taking a playful swipe at his face and missing, “and my welcome back party is _you_?”

“You’re welcome, asshole.” Neven said, picking up one of the bags. “I want to show you something.”

They began walking back to the Shatterdome. The weather was uncharacteristically grey, and a cold southerly wind lashed their faces so that every step they took was an effort.

“Can I at least go to my room first? Shower? Eat? I’ve been travelling for 40 hours.”

“Food and personal hygiene can wait. This can’t.”

* * *

Neven sent Marco’s bags away to his room with a guard. Then he took Marco to the observation decks, and wouldn’t answer any of his questions.

But once they were in the cavernous space, the surprise was impossible to miss. Marco stared at it for a few moments, shock barricading the words down his throat.

When he finally spoke, he could only manage a “ _God_.”

“Right?’

Marco stared blankly. “That wasn’t there when I left.”

“The components arrived the day after you left. Assembly took 24/7 over seven weeks, and we finished a week ago. We’ve been testing it since.”

 _It_ was a new jaeger.

Neven beamed proudly at it, like it was a new car crossed with a newborn infant. “Mark-4. One of the first. It’s 80 metres high and 2,386 tonnes of high-entropy neocrystalline metal alloy.”

“I don’t know what that means, Neven.” Marco said absently. The Jaeger was something to behold alright, beautiful and terrible like a dormant volcano.

“It means that the construction material has the low density of aluminium and the strength of a titanium alloy. It’s safer, too. They’ve replaced the nuclear reactors with digitised systems.”

“Why is there a new jaeger?” Marco asked.

“For you, idiot.”

Marco turned to Neven. “I already have a jaeger.”

“This one’s for you and Auba.”

“Auba?”

“Yeah. Auba. Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang. Your new partner in crime.” Neven said. “Klopp said that Indigo Omega is being reassigned to Erik and Matze. You’ll get this one instead.”

"But why?”

Neven frowned, confused. “Sorry, don’t you _want_ the brand new shiny toy?”

Marco didn’t answer. Instead, he spun on his heel and began walking away.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Neven called out.

“To see Klopp,” Marco called back.

* * *

It took him ten minutes to get from the observation decks to Klopp’s office, and he did a poor job of calming himself down on the way. The door was ajar, and he could see Klopp at his desk, his chair turned so that his back was to the door. His desk was never immaculate, but it seemed to be blanketed by more paper than usual. He seemed to be holding up a large, unwieldy technical drawing.

Marco knocked briefly and cleared his throat to announce his presence. “Marshal.”

Klopp didn’t startle. He swivelled his chair around and gave Marco a weary smile.

“Marco. Welcome back, son.” He said, folding the paper back down. He chucked it to a pile on his left and nodded towards the seats. “Please. Come in.”

Marco sat down, and they regarded each other for a few moments. Marco matched Klopp’s gaze with a fire that, to a different superior, could have been taken as insubordinate.

“You look well.” Klopp said. “But you don’t look content.”

“I’ve seen the jaeger.”

Klopp sighed. He took off his glasses, placed them on his desk.

“Who told you?”

“Neven took me to the observation decks when I arrived.”

“He didn’t have my authority to do so. I intended to tell you myself.” Klopp said. “And before you say anything, let me assure you – this has nothing to do with Mario. We’re beginning to encounter bigger and more powerful Kaiju. You know this. I commissioned a new jaeger for you and Mario in light of these circumstances. However, Mario left, and you went home. I didn’t want to overwhelm you with further news. I appreciate that you might find the timing distasteful. However, I trust you’ll understand that this was not my intention.”

Marco didn’t respond. His gaze remained fire.

Klopp clasped his hands together on the desk and leaned forward. His expression lost a little of its sympathy.

“Marco, this jaeger cost forty-six billion dollars. Its approval and construction required consultation with the PPDC and the approval of the United Nations Security Council. I promise you – it has been long in the making. Mario’s departure had nothing to do with it.”

Marco nodded, and tried not to be too begrudging about it.

“So I’m piloting it with the new guy.” He said.

“That is the intention, correct.”

“And you’re sure we’ll be drift-compatible.”

“You will be. Of that I have very little doubt.”

“On what basis?”

“Experience. Observation. Gut instinct.” Klopp said. He reached for a file to his left and rummaged through it, pulling out a single sheet of paper. He held it out to Marco. “Also, science.”

The sheet was split into two halves, for him and Pierre-Emerick, and it was full of numbers and abbreviations. At the very top of the page, just underneath their names, two lines were highlighted.

R-MREU_132.21-B                R-PAUB_952.23-B

“What is this?”

“Miki’s analysis of your anticipated drift compatibility with Auba. There’s a thirty page report around here somewhere, but in your hand is the summary.  It tells me that your drift compatibility is in the ninety-sixth percentile. That’s extraordinarily promising.”

Marco skimmed over the sheet without much success. They hadn’t learned the metrics of drift compatibility at the PPDC Academy.

“I don’t know what any of this means.” He finally admitted, for the second time that day.

“Then I’ll explain it to you. Let’s start with the the first three digits, the Harlowe-Sheehan-Parker Compatibility Index. HSP figures range from 100 to 999. Yours is 132, which is uncharacteristically low for a Ranger. This means that the pool of people with whom you’re neurally compatible is exceptionally limited. However, Auba’s value is 952, which is close to the maximum. If anyone has a shot at compatibility with you, it’s going to be him. The last two digits are your CORO patterns, which range from 1-99. The closer two figures are, the more stable the drift connection between individuals. Yours is 21, and Auba’s is 23. ”

Marco put the paper back down on the desk.

“I’m asking you to trust me.” Klopp said calmly.

“I do.”

He remained in Klopp’s office for a while after that, half-heartedly answering questions about his time at home, his family, his diet while on holiday, and his training regimen. Eventually Klopp dismissed him and returned to his technical drawings.

Marco didn’t encounter anyone on the way to his room, for which he was grateful, and he unpacked. He had intended to remain awake till much later that night to readjust his body clock, but found himself unable to resist either the call of his bed or the irresistible weight of his eyelids.

* * *

Noises from outside his room woke him up several hours later. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch.

 _8 pm_.

It was past the end of dinner, but he figured that if he went to the kitchen and pleaded his case, they would feed him something.

On the way to the mess hall, he passed Kuba and Nuri and gently turned down their offers to keep him company while he ate. He caught the momentary exchange of concerned looks between them but ignored it. The kitchen staff gave him what remained of that night’s Bolognese, and he sat down with a newspaper that someone had left on one of the tables.

Halfway through an article, a shadow fell over the table.

Marco looked up, saw the stranger, and his groggy brain took a few moments to realize that it was Pierre-Emerick.

Only - he was smiling. He hadn’t been smiling in most of the pictures that Marco had come across in his brief research.

The first thing Marco noticed about him, strangely enough, was the pair of headphones around his neck. He had turned down his music rather than switched it off completely, and the faint thud of it sounded familiar to Marco, although he couldn’t quite name the song. He was dressed in camouflage pants and a grey t-shirt, and his hair was shorn in a distinctly un-military manner. He was tall, like Marco, and he wore an earring, again like Marco.

The most striking thing about him, though, was his easy smile. He smiled as though they had met before, like they were friends rather than complete strangers.

“Marco, right?”

He extended his hand and Marco put his fork down to shake it. His hands were remarkably soft – _softer than Mario’s_ , Marco thought, but he caught himself before he drew further comparisons.

“You’re Pierre.”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, I am. But call me Auba. Everyone does.”

“Just Auba?” Marco repeated.

“Well. Pierre-Emerick’s fine too,” he replied. “If you prefer the mouthful.”

“Auba it is, then.” Marco conceded.

And then his mouth went blank, and all the questions he had planned to ask slipped like butter from his grasp. Auba watched him, air easy, but Marco’s tongue felt like sandpaper and this – this was a terrible start. This was going horribly.

“Listen. I know you’ve only just arrived back.” Auba said suddenly. “You’re probably wasted with jetlag. I just wanted to say hi.”

Marco offered a thin smile in return. “Thanks. I think I just need a good night’s sleep.”

“Totally. I get it.” Auba said kindly, burying his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “I had expected to see you at dinner but when you didn’t turn up, I figured you were probably sleeping. Kuba passed me by just now and told me that you were here.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’ll see you around tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He walked off and slipped his headphones back on, and Marco watched him go. He seemed nice enough. He had gone out of his way to find Marco, after all, and he hadn’t seemed bothered by Marco’s near-silence.

But still - Auba was new, and their new jaeger was different, and the Shatterdome somehow felt changed despite being the same, and all Marco wanted right now was a piece of familiarity to which he could tether himself.

But he wasn’t going to find it tonight. He pushed away his tray and decided to head for bed.

* * *

Marco joined Neven and Mats at breakfast the following morning. When Auba appeared, he made a beeline for their table and beamed at them. Marco had endured a fitful night’s sleep, and felt and probably looked like road-kill, but he cobbled together a smile anyway.

The group made small-talk about travelling and jetlag, and the distance between Australia and anywhere. After a while, Auba turned more directly to Marco.

"Klopp said something about fighting each other to determine our drift compatibility. On top of the usual assessments."

"You didn’t do that at Lima?”

Auba cracked a hard-boiled egg on the side of his tray and shook his head. "No. We used the standard approach. If your metrics were compatible with another pilot, you were put straight on the detached Pons for testing. They presumed that if the stats said you could drift well together, then you could fight well."

Marco thought back to his arrival at the Shatterdome. He and Mario had arrived together and presumed they'd be paired together, but Klopp still insisted on testing their compatibility anyway. Their fight had gone smoothly, for the most part. Mario walked away with a cut on the nose, and the bruise on Marco’s thigh took a week to recede, but they still convinced Klopp that they’d work well together. And they had.

“We always fight here.” Neven explained. “Actually, we do a lot of things differently around here. Klopp likes to get in trouble with the PPDC command.”

“There’s science behind it.” Mats interjected. “It’s about anticipation. The more a fighting pair can predict and anticipate and counter each other's moves, the more likely they can handle and anticipate each other's thoughts. The better you fight together, the stronger and more stable the neural handshake between you is presumed to be.”

“But why wouldn’t you just go straight to testing on the Pons if the metrics work?” Auba asked.

“Because politics.” Neven smiled, sprinkling his eggs liberally with salt. “You see Auba, Klopp has mixed feelings about drifting. When the PPDC voted on whether to approve of drifting after Caitlin Lightcap developed the mechanism, Klopp was one of three people to vote against it.”

“You have to remember – he’s old-school military.” Mats explained. “Objectively, he knows that you can’t pull a jaeger off the ground without drifting. But he also thinks it’s intrusive and dangerous.”

“And he’s right. On all counts.” Neven said. “They threw out the ethics approval manual to get it operational. Nothing’s ever gone from idea to trial to testing to approval so quickly.”

“Yeah, well, the Kaijus weren’t going to wait 15 years for us to refine the product.” Mats pointed out, before turning back to Auba. “Anyway, Klopp still has a residual mistrust of the technology. He doesn’t like exposing potential drift partners to it unless he’s almost certain that they’ll be compatible. That’s why he gets them to fight first.”

Auba leaned back in his seat and looked to Marco with a grin.

“Okay. So we’ll fight.” He declared. “But don't worry. I’ll take it easy on you.”

Marco looked up from his plate at Auba. He raised an eyebrow.

“And why would you do that?”

“Because you’ve been home for two months. You’re probably gone soft. Perfectly understandable.”

“We’ll see.” Marco shot back, but through a smile. Auba’s grin was oddly infectious. “I’ll warn Nuri to clear a bed for you in the medical wing.”

Neven looked from one to the other and rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Excellent. Excellent. We haven’t had anything to wager on for a while.”

Mats shoved Neven in the side. “Don’t encourage them, idiot.”

* * *

Neven, ever faithful to his self-designation as Gambler-In-Chief, instituted a betting system before the end of dinner that day. To Marco’s disbelief, and Auba’s immense amusement, he designed the odds so that Auba was the favourite, and he refused to explain the basis on which he made that decision to either Marco or Auba.

And Marco didn’t realize how, or when, but between meals and getting to know each other over the next few days, he got sucked into the trash-talking by Auba, and he learned that Auba was a merciless tease.

Marco liked to think that they were evenly matched, in both skills and wits. However, in the middle of a routine medical examination before the fight, he learned that others disagreed.

“Auba said you’d be keeping me company in the ward.” Nuri said with a smile. “Lift your left leg for me.”

Marco did as he was told, and eyed Nuri. “Auba’s great, but he talks a lot of shit for someone who’s been here for a week.”

“Several weeks.” Nuri corrected him. “And I may or may not have wagered $20 on him being right.”

“You did  _what_?”

“Lift your other leg.”

Marco did as he was told, but stared at Nuri incredulously. “You’ve known this guy for all of five minutes and you’re betting on _him_ , against _me_?”

Nuri gave Marco a patronising pat on the head, and Marco swatted it away before it could ruin his hair.

“Don’t take it personally.” Nuri said, jotting a few things down on a chart. “I have all his medical records from Lima, and I examined him when he arrived. He’s faster than you, heavier than you, and he has greater lung capacity.”

“Fuck his _lung capacity_. You and I are supposed to be _friends_.”

“The wager wasn’t personal. It was scientific.”

“And you,” Marco declared, “are dead to me.”

“Whatever.” Nuri grinned. “Lift your arms so I can measure those new biceps of yours.”

In the 24 hours before the fight, it transpired that several of his friends were also dead to him. Amongst them were Mats, who had slyly sought out Nuri’s advice on Auba’s medicals; Neven, who never missed an opportunity to annoy Marco if he could help it; and Kuba, who had been bribed to switch sides. Lukasz regretfully informed Marco that it only took two pancakes.

* * *

The fight was scheduled for a Wednesday afternoon in the Kwoon. Marco arrived ten minutes before the fight, and was surprised to find a packed house.

Auba was already there, in khaki green pants and a black singlet that was frayed at the neck and edges. His bō was already in hand, and he twirled the long, thin staff around as though it was weightless.

When Marco arrived, the room fell quiet and Auba looked up. He caught Marco’s eye and grinned, tilting his bō in Marco’s direction to acknowledge him. Marco smiled back and nodded, and took off his sweater, shoes and socks, folding them into a pile and placing them at the edge of the inner circle. He made his way towards the back wall and picked out the third bō from the left– his favourite, which everyone knew, and avoided for his sake.

He twirled it around in his hand once, twice, its revolutions awakening his muscles. It felt heavy but familiar in his hand, and he suddenly felt a lot more comfortable.  He walked back to the circle.

Klopp stood to the side, suited and arms folded, with a sour look on his face. His eyes circled the room and Marco could tell that he was displeased with the size of the audience, but for now, he didn’t say anything to clear the room.  To his left, Kehli stood to monitor the fairness of the fight. To his right, Nuri stood with a clipboard in his hands, and a first-aid kit at his feet.

Auba and Marco met in the middle of the circle and turned towards Klopp. They bowed in front of him.

"Gentlemen, we’re here to test your drift compatibility. The first to four strikes is the victor, but I stress that your objective today isn’t victory.”

Neven cleared his throat, and half the room sniggered in response. The noise died down with a single, withering look from Klopp.

“I want you both to fight clean today. I want you to fight fair. I don't need to remind you that bō-to-skin contact is strictly forbidden, because you are not here to kill each other. You are here to test your drift compatibility. This is an assessment tool for me. With that in mind, I want you to fight hard and give me – and each other – everything you have so that I can gain an accurate picture of your chemistry. Are all these things understood?"

They each nodded.

“Take your positions.”

Marco instinctively went to the left, and Auba to the right. They turned around and bowed, their eyes firmly on each other. Auba wasn’t smiling anymore but Marco could make out a glimmer of enjoyment in his eyes. He looked how Marco felt.

“Ready?”

They each gave a single nod.

"Begin.” Klopp declared.

At the word, each of them remained perfectly still.

They stood in their respective spots, bōs at the ready, eyeing each other - but when they moved, they moved at exactly the same time, in the same second and in the same fraction of that second. The space between then closed almost immediately, and the sound of bō against bō, wood against wood, echoed sharply around the room. It was punctuated only by the sounds of their low, ragged breaths.

Within a few moments of starting, Marco figured out that Auba fought very, very differently to Mario. Mario assumed the offensive, lunging towards his opponent and trying to work them backwards. Auba tended to hold his ground, and Marco found himself being lured towards the other end of the circle. Auba was taller than him too, and much leaner than Mario. His legs carried his steps further and his arms had a wider reach.

Marco eventually won the first round anyway, though it took him a while. He feinted two blows to Auba’s left leg and hip, and Auba fell for both of them. In raising his bō to defend himself from Marco, he left his shoulder exposed, and Marco brought his bō right down to it, hovering the wooden pole a few hairs above his skin.

The room erupted with noise, but Klopp raised a stern hand in the air to quell it down.

“Marco one. Auba nil.”

“Who’s soft around the edges now?” Marco called out to Auba.

“Talk to me in three strikes’ time.” Auba said, loud enough for the rest of the room to hear.

They lunged into the second round, and at each other, immediately. Marco found himself so busy defending against Auba’s hits as Auba raised the intensity of his aggression, so busy that he could barely get a hit in. And Nuri was right – Auba _was_ quicker than him, and he began sidestepping around Marco to an extent that almost made him dizzy.

Auba could do something else that Mario couldn’t – he could anticipate Marco’s moves, and vice versa. Their fighting styles were like mirror images, the same but just a little different, and each seemed to be at the other’s next step before the other had reached it. Marco had fought plenty of times in his life, but never in a match as evenly as this.

Like the first round, the second round lasted for several minutes. It ended with Marco being tripped unceremoniously onto his back, and with Auba’s bō – and his irrepressible grin – suspended just above his nose.

Noise erupted around them like fireworks, again. Auba had the gall to wink at him. Marco tried to work out why he didn’t feel mad.

Auba stood up, offered Marco a hand to help him up, and Marco accepted it. They both looked to Klopp.

Klopp was watching him a slight frown, which Marco recognised as Klopp’s default thinking face as opposed to an expression of discontent. It told him nothing. Next to him, Nuri was hiding his face behind his clipboard in a piss-poor attempt at looking professional.

“Marco one. Auba one.” Klopp declared. “Continue.”

The next round lasted so long that Klopp paused their fighting for a few moments.

They stepped away from each other at the instruction, panting heavily, eyeing one another. Sweat trailed off their bodies and seemed to rise like steam. Marco felt winded and noted with a sense of grim satisfaction that Auba seemed equally spent. But Auba was still smiling too, somehow.

Marco went to Mats, grabbed a towel off him, and pressed his face into it, grateful to be rid of the sweat that had plastered his hair onto his forehead. When he was done, he intentionally threw the sopping towel at Neven.

“Is that all you got?” Marco teased, just quietly enough for Auba to hear, but no one else.

Before Auba could respond, Klopp cleared his throat. “Less conversation, more combat. Resume your positions.”

So they did. Klopp made them fight four more rounds, and they took out two rounds each.

“Marco three. Auba three. This round now is match point.”

The seventh round lasted an age, and they began to tire at the same time. Klopp made them pause twice. In the middle of the second pause, Marco caught Nuri showing a stopwatch to Klopp and saying something in hushed tones. Klopp nodded gruffly and said something back, but Marco didn’t catch it.

He gave them the order to fight again, and they continued.

Marco’s body was beginning to sing with pain. He knew he could keep going for a while longer, but he felt acid pool in his muscles, at the back of his legs, and around the dips of his shoulders and elbows. Sweat trailed down his face but it did nothing to cool him. Auba was in a similar state, his body still strong but beginning to lag a few moments behind his determination.

But Klopp didn’t tell them to stop, so they kept fighting, and their tiredness didn’t affect the stalemate of their fight. Marco dished out as many hits as he blocked, but Auba’s bō seemed to always be there, waiting for his own, whenever he hit.

Eventually, Klopp declared: "Bōs down. I've seen enough."

Marco stood, eyes closed, trying to hold onto his breath. He eventually looked up at Auba, and saw him looking pleased but equally short of breath. Auba grinned and pressed his hand to his forehead like he was performing a military salute at Marco. Marco responded in like, and then they bowed to each other, and to Klopp.

He regarded them with a look of grim satisfaction.

"Excellent. Excellent." He said. "I suspected you two would match well. We’ll proceed to Pons testing the day after tomorrow. Well done, both of you."

The room broke out in applause, which was only interrupted by Neven.

“But, uh, Marshal? Sir?” He called out. “Who won?”

“There is no winner, Neven.”

Marco and Auba exchanged a look, and held back laughter.

“But – if you absolutely had to pick, sir?” Neven insisted.

“Fortunately, I don’t. I’m declaring this fight a draw,” Klopp called out, to him and the room at large, before adding drily. “Consider it a lesson to you and anyone else who wants to gamble on military premises. Everyone is dismissed.”

* * *

Marco learned that Auba’s unofficial welcome party had been scheduled for after the fight. He excused himself and went to take a shower first.

His body ached in a way that it hadn’t for a while, and stepping under the water felt blissful. Sure, Marco had exercised and run while he was at home, but that exercise felt like killing time in comparison. The pain he felt now was the low, dull ache of muscles waking up after being out of use, of a body doing what it was meant to again.

He showered, lost in thought. He knew that he shouldn’t compare Auba to Mario, but he also knew that resisting that impulse would be impossible.

Auba and Mario fought differently. When Marco and Mario had fought, Mario’s face turned as cold and unmoving as marble, the softness of his features cancelled by the distance in his eyes. He detached himself from himself and from Marco, as though they hadn’t walked into the room laughing together.  

Not so with Auba, who fought with his whole self, including his personality, like the whole thing was an elaborate but amusing joke.

Marco stayed under the water long after he was clean, till his skin began to turn red and raw and wrinkled from the unrelenting heat. He liked that too. He leaned back against the wall and relaxed.

A loud knock on the bathroom door disrupted his reverie. He turned off the water and looked at the door suspiciously.

“Marco?” A voice called out.

“Neven, what the _hell_ are you doing in my room.”

“You’ve been under the water for half an hour.”

“So?”

“This country’s in danger of drought, son.”

“We’re in Australia. This country’s always in danger of drought.”

“Yes. Because of your thirty minute showers.” Neven shot back. “Listen, are you coming? Everyone’s already there. ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marco said, turning off the water. “Give me a minute. See you soon.”

He wrapped a towel around himself and entered the bedroom. Neven was still there. In fact, Neven had made himself quite at home, reclining on Marco’s bed and bouncing a basketball off the wall.

Marco gave him a grimace on the way to the dresser. “Jesus, Neven. At least take your shoes off. How did you even get in here?”

Neven gave him a derisive look. He balanced the basketball on a single finger and twirled it, pleased with himself.

“I have a PhD in engineering, and you're asking me how I picked your lock? Please.” Neven said. “Anyway, that went well. I, for one, did not expect that to go as well it did.”

“You know the kick I get out of proving you wrong, Nev.”

Marco rifled through the pile of t-shirts that had accumulated on his floor in a week. He pulled out a fading grey band shirt, recognised it immediately as one of Mario’s, and buried it right back from whence it came.

 “It was different from yours and Mario’s fight though.” Neven said.

“I guess so.”

“That’s it, then? You’re okay? ” Neven asked. “Mario’s been moved to storage?”

Marco looked up at him and stared. Then he aimed the t-shirt in his hand squarely at Neven’s head. Neven caught it before it hit, and discarded it next to the bed.

“Why are you even in here?” Marco demanded.

“Kuba sent me to get you. You’re late.”

“Did Kuba order the emotional cross-examination as well?”

“No. That was my idea.” Neven said.

* * *

The party took place on one of the upper, unused observation decks. Auba was already waiting for Marco at the edge of the platform with two bottles of light beer. Marco accepted one gratefully, clinked it against Auba’s, and they talked about their aching limbs for a little while.

Eventually, Marco steered the conversation towards personal waters.

“So.” He said. “What’s Lima like?”

Auba smiled wistfully and took a sip of his drink.

“Nothing like here.” He said. “Nothing like here at all.”

“Yeah? How?”

Auba didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a look at the scene around them. Amidst the cacophony, Mats and Nuri were on the floor playing cards, Schmelle was topping up Klopp’s drink, and Kuba was air-guitaring to the Led Zeppelin song blasting out from somewhere.

“I don’t know. Klopp runs this ship a little differently. The Marshal in Lima stuck to his office and we only ever saw him if there was a breach. The entire command worked and ate separately. A scene like this,” he said, nodding at the crowd, “would have been unthinkable.”

“He’s unconventional,” Marco conceded, smiling into the mouth of his bottle, “but he’s ours.”

“I wonder how the PPDC feels about it.”

“He runs a tight ship. They can’t question his methods.” Marco said. “But the emotional involvement gets to him sometimes, I think. He cares a lot.”

“You guys seem to treat him more like a dad.”

“Very funny you should say that. Because Schemelle accidentally called him “dad” once.”

Auba laughed. “Jesus. What did Klopp do?”

“Corrected him gruffly. But he seemed quietly pleased, if you ask me.”

In that moment, Miki bulldozed into the conversation and began talking to them excitedly about the upcoming Pons assessment. Marco listened and tried not to be annoyed at the interruption.

But at the very least, as he watched Auba listening intently to Miki, he found himself thinking, _maybe we can do this, him and I_.

_Maybe this might work._

* * *

He went to bed that night feeling tentatively optimistic. At 3 am, he woke up with a jolt, and as he lay awake, his optimism became paper-thin and then vanished altogether.  It was replaced by a knot in his chest, and it had his undivided and sleepless attention.

He skipped breakfast, stayed in his room, and tried to untangle it. The effort only contorted it further.

Marco sat at the edge of his bed and tried to calm his breathing. He gripped the mattress, closed his eyes, counted to ten, twenty, a hundred, but his breathing didn’t slow down. The same two words ran laps around his mind – _what if_?

_What if the Pons test fails? What if we don’t work as well as me and Mario? Or him and Amin?_

_What if we drift, and he sees all these doubts?_

Marco decided to go find Lukasz. He wouldn’t necessarily know what to do, but he knew how to listen better than anyone else in the Shatterdome. More importantly, he was a pilot. If anyone else could understand the anxiety that came out of drifting, it would be him.

Lukasz’s door was ajar when he reached it. They were close enough that Marco could poke his head in through the gap rather than knock. Lukasz was reclined on his bed, a heavy leather tome balanced upright on his chest and blocking his head from view.

He looked out from behind it when he realized he wasn’t alone. When he saw Marco, he frowned.

“You weren’t at breakfast.” Lukasz said. “You’ve got to stop missing meals.”

When Marco couldn’t respond immediately, Lukasz shut the book and sat up.

“Marco? Everything okay?”

Marco exhaled. It took him a few seconds, but he eventually managed to piece together a few words.

"Got a minute?"

“I'll spare a couple. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

Lukasz’s room was large, but Kuba’s things took up half of it. Kuba’s jacket was here, and Kuba’s tablet was there, and Kuba’s other miscellaneous possessions were dusted everywhere. Technically, they still had separate rooms, but Kuba had moved in shortly after they had begun drifting. His own room had since become storage space for the both of them.

“Keep doing your breathing exercises.” Lukasz said, clearing one of the chairs. “And sit down.”

Marco did as he was told and tried to monitor his breathing. Lukasz moved about the room, fussing with mugs and teaspoons to prepare tea. He eventually handed a steaming mug to Marco and sat cross-legged on his bed. He regarded Marco with interest.

 “Okay. Talk. What’s going on?”

Marco exhaled. “I don’t know … I thought I was fine.”

“Things went well in the Kwoon with Auba.”

“I guess.”

“No, they definitely did.” Lukasz said. He furrowed his brows over the top of his cup. “But you don’t sound convinced.”

"That was just fighting. I can fight with anyone. Drifting, though … drifting is … ”

And he trailed off, because _drifting is drifting_ was a facetious explanation, even if it felt true.

“No, I get it.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready, y’know?” He said. “So much could go wrong.”

“Listen, you like the guy, don’t you? Then —”

“But likability isn’t the threshold, is it?” Marco answered. “I like him. Doesn’t mean I can drift with him.’

Lukasz raised a hand to stop him.

“Let me finish. I was thinking more that if you like the guy – then that’s a promising first step. It’s early days. Don’t try to hope or predict for more.”

"What if I can’t drift well with him, though? Or with you? Or with anyone other than Mario? I mean, I've _barely_ got over losing that kind of connection with Mario.” Marco said. The mug was scalding his palms by now. He still hadn’t taken a single sip. “And now Klopp wants me to start building another one, with someone new. “

It was like being asked to go naked in front of a complete stranger, but worse. He was afraid of what his thoughts would show Auba, and he was afraid of what Auba’s thoughts would show him.

"It's not an ideal set of circumstances, but what else was Klopp supposed to do, Marco? You're too good to be off duty long-term.” Lukasz said. "Look. I'm no expert. But I would think that the longer you put off your return to active duty, the harder it's going to be. The longer you live with this phantom connection with Mario, even though he’s gone, the harder it’s going to be for you to establish anything with anyone else. Maybe Klopp's just ripping off the bandage. And it hurts, I'm sure, and no one knows what you’re going through, but in the long run ... maybe moving quickly is for the best."

Marco sunk in his chair.

“See how it goes tomorrow.” Lukasz continued. “If your gut tells you that it isn't right, then by all means, tell Klopp. Neither Klopp nor Auba want you piloting a jaeger on an unsteady neural handshake. But in the meantime, these worries of yours are just the nerves of trying something new. Don’t give them more weight than they deserve.”

Without naming names, Marco said, “I still miss him.”

He felt like he was three, and Mario was his beat-up, dirty, over-loved security blanket.

“I know you do. But maybe this is what you need to start getting over him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Kudos, short or long or any comments, concrit and cookies are all most welcome and appreciated ^_^


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